


To Love Someone

by 1BloggerandSociopathX1



Series: Heaps of Johnlock [6]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Beginnings of Relationships, Doctor John, Drugs, Ficlets, Insecure Sherlock, Love, M/M, Not In Chronological Order, Not really a wip, Pet Names, Slow Updates, Some angst, bumble bees, cause they're all individual ficlets, each chapter will be its own thing, everywhere a fluff fluff, here a fluff, if it does happen to be a continuation I'll tell ya, impatient john, just little cute things, new tags will be added when they arise, oh the fluff, so enjoy, some established johnlock, some not, sorry school sucks, super cute, there a fluff, tons of fluff, trips, tw depression, withdraw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:00:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1BloggerandSociopathX1/pseuds/1BloggerandSociopathX1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series inspired by HolyBlue2's work called "100 Ways to Say "I Love You" (a series of Destiel fics that I absolute adored) I couldn't help but think of Johnlock as I read some of the chapter titles. This is basically a series of different ways that John and Sherlock show that they love each other (sometimes without even meaning to) I'll try to update as soon as possible, but I don't really have a fixed schedule for it or number of chapters. If you have any suggestions let me know!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pull over, and let me drive for a bit

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [100 Ways To Say "I Love You"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4481279) by [hollyblue2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyblue2/pseuds/hollyblue2). 



"Pull over, and let me drive for a bit."

Sherlock had been driving for hours. They had a case up in Chesterfield that he had rated as a seven, claiming that they simply had to go check it out. It wasn't even in Lestrade's division, but John had been begging him to ask around for anything. Sherlock knew that John had been asking after he saw his blogger checking his phone (because John never checked his phone unless he was expecting someone to reply). Sherlock had hid his appreciative smile behind his newspaper. After Sherlock burned the sitting room rug to test the fibers of the poor carpet, however, John had started demanding _any_ case. Sherlock had been extremely disappointed in the experiment's results, and John had chided him, saying that while the rug was distasteful, that didn't mean it deserved to be burnt to a crisp.  Sherlock had fought back a laugh.

Anyhow, a case a few hours away could do them some good. A weekend away. Well, a weekend minus the twenty minutes it would take to go to the scene where the body was (crammed in a donated couch at a retirement home), and for Sherlock to solve it. He already had a theory, but needed to see it in person. Well, he didn't really, but John was about as bad with sitting around with nothing to do as Sherlock was. He wouldn't admit that they were driving out of the city for an overnight trip because _Sherlock Holmes_ cared that someone besides himself was bored.

He blinked when John spoke, glancing over to him before looking back over to the road. Sherlock liked driving. Most people thought he would find it boring, but he actually enjoyed it. It got him out of his head for a bit and gave him something to do that wasn't entirely useless. Driving allowed him to focus without deducing or going mad from boredom. He didn't have to look at many people, and by the time their cars passed he had already deleted the deduction. Not to mention that on the country roads they were taking, there were little to no people. That didn't mean he would have passed up taking a cab, but paying the fee from central London to Chesterfield would have been even more than the car rental. While he enjoyed driving, he didn't necessarily adore riding with his arms up and back straight for six hours straight.

When Sherlock didn't respond right away John sighed, adjusting in his seat, "Come on, you git, you've been at it for hours. We won't be there for a while."

It was already getting dark, and John knew Sherlock too well to think that he genius would actually sleep when they got to the inn. Sherlock let his gaze drift back to John, resisting the urge to grin back at John's earnest smile. He sagged his shoulders, looking back to the road as he pulled over in defeat.

He pulled over in front of an old fence, the horses behind it seeming curious but not minding their presence much. He put the car in park, not saying anything as he got out of the car and walked around the front to John's side. John was waiting for him when he got over there, not particularly opening the door for him openly, but definitely standing with a purpose. Sherlock regarded him briefly before getting in the passenger's side.

John lingered, asking, "Alright?" He still had that sweet look of concern that he had whenever Sherlock was being quiet. In the future he would get better at reading his silences, but after everything with Mary, John had been treading lightly.

Sherlock just nodded, confirming quietly instead of snapping at the doctor, "Alright."

John seemed content with this answer and shut the door, walking around to the other side and clamoring in. He fiddled with the radio for a moment, looking for something other than pop or country, which had been on every single station once they left the city. Eventually he settled on a low, quiet song. One he knew by heart and hummed contently to. Sherlock had to resist the urge to watch as John's Adam's apple bobbed with each note he sang behind closed lips. _Easy, easy._

They had fallen into what Sherlock thought was a comfortable silence, well, as comfortable as it was going to get. Things had been awkward, to say the least. They had noticed-hell, _everyone_  had noticed- how long they hugged when that plane landed. All the lingering touches and sharing the couch when they could have been in their separate chairs led Sherlock to believe that they were waiting for something. As though the ball was about to drop and then suddenly everything would either be bliss or mayhem. He didn't know how it was going to all come together, but what he did know was that there was no way he was imagining this. Not when John was waiting for him to put on his seat belt and bringing him coffee each morning without being asked. Granted, he never needed to ask before all this, but his touch had never lingered so long on the mugs after Sherlock took them, morning after morning. So, waiting in the car with nothing to talk about, no real distractions, was bound to be awkward.

"You're quiet."

 _Well, so much for the silence,_ Sherlock thought. He hummed in response, looking out the window as-yet another- pop song came onto the radio. The different variations of performers singing about their significant others was irritating and...secretly endearing. Damn, he was becoming a bloody teenager. Now he was actually  _relating_ to these fucking love songs.

"Any particular reason?" John probed, and Sherlock adored it. "I mean, it's fine. I love sitting in a silent car for six hours as much as the next bloke..." he joked.

Sherlock smirked a bit before shrugging, "Just thinking." Before John could ask what it was about, Sherlock added, "Driving makes me think. But not too much, it's hard to explain."

John just nodded in understanding, turning on the headlights as the sun fell deeper behind the horizon.

They fell into the silence again, Sherlock staring out the window and John happily humming when a song came on that he liked, and just listening when one came on that he didn't. After about thirty minutes Sherlock abruptly spoke again, "When I was a teenager," he began, getting John's attention instantly, "my parents didn't let me drive."

John furrowed his eyebrows, obviously not understanding where this was going, but interested. Sherlock continued, "It was because of my mind palace. They were always worried I wouldn't be ' _present_ ' when driving, and they were right."

John sat up a bit in his seat before asking with an unsure smile, "Are you saying I shouldn't have let you drive for five hours straight?"

Sherlock smiled a bit and waved him off, "No, no, I've got it now. I mean, when I drive alone I can't..." he didn't want to flat out tell John that _he_ kept his mind, and the rest of him, grounded. He always did though. John grounded him in more ways than one. Driving was just one example.

He glanced over to John, seeing the realization of what Sherlock was saying play across his features. John's face softened and Sherlock felt his heart melting. They were quiet for another moment before John realized something and he asked, "Wait, you said they were right?"

Sherlock smirked and nodded, sheepishly looking down as he explained, "I might have crashed into a tree."

Sherlock thought John would brush this off, but when he looked back to him, John's had a frown and was looking ahead at the road. He seemed to be working up the nerve to say something, and Sherlock let him, convincing himself that he wasn't watching as John's tongue peaked out to wet his lips.

Eventually the blonde spoke, in a baffled voice, "Why'd they let you drive in the first place?"

He didn't sound curious, he sounded...mad. Mad that his parents allowed him to drive knowing how his mind was. How consuming it could be. Sherlock tried not to appreciate John's worry, because John shouldn't worry, but it was nice. It was actually amazing that someone as wonderful as John Watson cared so much about him. Even after learning about something that happened years ago.

Sherlock could tell John was fighting against being angry and judging Sherlock's parents, because he had met them. John loved his parents, and they loved him, and John probably thought it was betrayal to be upset over something that happened years ago.

Sherlock tried to reassure John, saying, "Well, they didn't really know how to handle it. Mycroft doesn't have a mind palace, you know. He handles his mind...differently. Finds mine quite pointless, actually," he frowned briefly before dismissing that thought and continuing, "They didn't know it would be an issue with driving. They just assumed that I would be fine. Nothing too drastic happened, except for a sprained wrist and a few bruises."

This seemed to upset John a bit more, his grip tightening on the wheel. Sherlock sat up quickly, adding, "Its fine, John, really."

John took a breath, looking over to him. He seemed to be confirming something, as though he needed to see that Sherlock was okay. It was heartwarming that John cared this much, and nerve-wracking to be under such a gaze. Once he found whatever he was searching Sherlock's face for, he seemed content and looked back to the road.

The silence fell again, and Sherlock went back to looking out the window. He was starting to regret saying anything to begin with, when John said fondly, "Well, despite getting that under control when you drive, you are not getting behind this wheel again without any sleep."

Sherlock scoffed a bit, rolling his eyes with no intention of feeding into the temptation of closing his eyelids for a  _few_ minutes. His intentions changed when John nudged him a bit and added, "Please. We won't be there for a few hours anyways."

Sherlock looked back at him, blinking as John added, pleadingly, "For me."

That was all the detective needed to be shifting in his seat so his head was resting against the window, his long limbs curling up to fit on the leather seat. He stared out the window for a while longer, watching the sun set. His eyes eventually drifted closed as John's hums lulled him into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this one. I just typed it pretty quickly on a whim so excuse any grammatical errors! Leave a comment or kudo if you enjoyed it, and any suggestions are welcome! Sorry if my updates are a little spread out, but the life of a procrastinating blogger is never done :D


	2. It Reminded Me of You

John really enjoyed being a doctor. He really did. Not many people got to do what they loved as a living, and granted, it was hard to love being puked, coughed, and sneezed on everyday, but he still loved it. He loved helping people, even after getting shot in the shoulder for it. It was in his nature to help people, and being a doctor let him do just that, so he loved it. Except for right now, while waiting around in a tiny airport in the middle of Poland, having been sent to some conference that he couldn't bother to pay attention to. Somehow being the divorced, no family, no commitment man of the office meant he got stuck with being shipped off God knows where to sit through a slideshow about cleaning the damn syringes.

What was more annoying was that he did have a commitment, now. Not just being the best friend/caretaker of the most brilliant mind in the world, but also his...whatever they were. His...lover? Yes. Friend? Without a shadow of a doubt. But... Boyfriend? He wanted to say yes, because naturally that was what they were. "Boyfriend-a regular male companion with whom one has a romantic or sexual relationship." Yes, definitely boyfriends, though, they hadn't talked about it, really. It wasn't particularly a whirlwind thing (Hell, it had been years in the making) but the grand new adventure of their life together ( _together_ , together) had just recently begun.

***

The quiet declaration in the middle of their little home that they made together caught John off guard, to say the least. Of course, Sherlock had always been one to either dive in head first or take his time about things. This was one of the things he decided to take his time with.

Which suited John just fine. He had just gotten back from work on a particularly boring Thursday, expecting a quiet night and possibly finishing the last chapter of his latest novel (And even though Sherlock ruined the ending weeks ago,  _John, obviously it's the twin sister,_ John still wanted to finish it up). That wasn't what he was met with, however.

He came into the flat and just as he was putting his coat up on the rack, he saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the room. John stared at him for a moment, convinced the man had gone to his "mind palace" while standing up (again). Except, when John moved closer to try and "wake him up" to ask him what he wanted for dinner, however, Sherlock shifted where he stood. This was somewhat normal when the bloke "zoned out" while standing up, but it seemed deliberate. A nervous tell.

The man before him took a deep breath and stared at John directly, a gaze that he constantly was under but was somehow anxious about now. Sherlock seemed to be looking for something as he scanned John's face, and John let him have his sweet time with it, because he had stopped ignoring the flutter in his chest whenever Sherlock looked at him a long, long time ago.

The seconds felt like hours, but eventually John's patience paid off and Sherlock tentatively stepped forward, looking the most nervous that John had ever seen him. He seemed to be working up the nerve to do _something,_ and John knew what it was. He'd known for a while and had been waiting for that fantastic brain to catch up with him. The next thing he knew, Sherlock's hand was reached out as though it was going to cradle John's face, but fell short by a few centimeters, waiting for approval, waiting to make sure he wasn't wrong about this.

John had to resist the urge to kiss him right then, to wipe that adorable and unnecessary look of uncertainty off of his face. _No, no, he wants it to be slow. Patience._ He couldn't help but think that his mad detective was saving all of this to memory, watching every move that John took and examining it thoroughly.

John finally helped him out a bit and raised his own hand to lead Sherlock's to his cheek, brushing over the back of the pale hand with his thumb. He smiled softly and he could have sworn Sherlock's breath hitched.

They stayed like that for a long while, just looking at each other in the darkened flat as the sun plunged from the London sky. Eventually Sherlock spoke, so quietly that John wouldn't have caught it if they weren't so close together, "I..." he took a breath and began again, "I'm going to kiss you." Though it was a statement, his low voice sounded so unsure and questioning that John's heart melted a little bit more than it already had.

John grinned, "It's about time..."

***

Then of  _course_ John got the call a few days later, before anything really settled- _tentative touches, slow smiles, questioning looks and "are you sure"'s-_ to leave and go to bloody Poland for two days.

His phone had been relatively quiet, no new texts from his detective except for:  _Surely they won't miss you too much. You can still catch the 8 o'clock flight back if you hurry. SH_ _  
_

John had just grinned and sneaked a reply while the lecturer was busy fiddling with the presentation.

But now, sitting in the airport as he waited on a delayed flight, he was really questioning why he even decided to leave the flat at all. He should have taken Sherlock's advice and refused, but he had just gotten settled at this new job and didn't want to get fired. After everything with Mary he had decided to quit the other job, because he couldn't handle the stares his coworkers got when she randomly disappeared ( _literally_ disappeared, as Mycroft erased any trace of her from his life entirely, including job applications and places of employment).

He sighed and checked his watch again. 11:17 p.m. He looked up at the board holding the times for the flights, refusing the urge to curse as he saw, for the eleventh time, that his flight wouldn't even be boarding until  midnight. He wouldn't be back in London until at least two in the morning. He tapped his fingers on his knee in annoyance. He just wanted to be home. He just wanted to see ( _his?_ ) Sherlock and do all the lovey-dovey couple stuff that got put on hold. They should be snogging in the kitchen while making tea and cuddling on the couch like damn teenagers. Is that too much to ask?

After about twenty minutes sitting on a tiny wooden bench and loathing the entire situation, he decided to get up and search for some form of caffeine. With his little suitcase and laptop bag in tow, he wandered the airport. Eventually he found a little cafe, only to find it jam packed with people in business suits getting that last bit of subsidence before getting on board for whatever meetings they had at ungodly hours.

John sighed and turned around, intending to find somewhere to sit and wait until the line calmed down a bit. Instead, he found a little souvenir shop. Sherlock had never been one for souvenirs, because if he wanted to remember something, he could simply "save" the memory, as he put it. Still, John was sleep deprived, bored, and missed his boyfriend and the bloody Queen couldn't stop him from getting a souvenir for Sherlock.

He stepped into the little shop. It was small, but tidy with little white shelves holding up snow globes and "Greetings From Poland" postcards. He wandered the store aimlessly, just killing time really, before he passed the kids section. He had a sad smile as he passed the baby toys, trying not to think too much about his recent loss. Finding out the baby wasn't his hurt more than Mary deceiving him, really. He was just about to give up in favor of getting away from the terrible feeling he got as he passed the baby books, before he stopped.

His sad smile slowly grew as he saw it. It was perfect. He picked up the small, almost pillow-like toy, its bright yellow and black standing out against the white shelf.

John grinned down at the plushy, imagining Sherlock's surprised face. (Granted, Sherlock would probably deduce that he got him a souvenir, but he wouldn't expect a bumble bee plushy). He remembered back when Sherlock first mentioned his love for bees.

***

They were sitting in the flat a few months ago, a simple, Sunday morning. John was updating the blog with their newest case while Sherlock complained about the lack of interesting television shows. John had been fondly listening to Sherlock complain, until the detective fell silent. John looked up from his screen and looked to Sherlock, who was looking at some documentary with the look he only wore when something truly interested him. John was pleased to know that this look had been used on him several times. His eyebrows were raised and a small ghost of a smile made it known on his lips, as though he were unsure whether or not to trust that whatever caught his attention was worth it.

John moved his gaze from Sherlock to the television, surprised to find a nature documentary about bees catching the interest of that mind. It wasn't that John had anything against bees, but he thought something a bit more...complex would captivate the genius. John wasn't complaining though. He watched the documentary as well from where he sat at the table in their living room before Sherlock finally spoke.

"Wonderful creatures."

John just looked at him. Sherlock didn't look away from the screen and continued, "They...create. How many insects create things that humans actually use? And they don't do it for the product, they do it for the Work. Repopulate for the Queen, pollinate for the Queen, make honey for the Queen, and begin again next spring."

Ah. So that was what captivated him. Sherlock Holmes was practically a bumble bee disguised as a human when it came to "the Work".

John just smiled and joked, "How very British."

Sherlock had laughed.

***

John pushed open the door to 221 B at three o'clock in the morning, looking quite wreaked and exhausted, but eager to be home. He slowly ascended the stairs, silently hoping Sherlock got  _some_ sleep while he was gone. He walked into the flat, checking the living room for the man first before going to the kitchen. He found him in there, seemingly in another world as he sat hunched over his microscope. John smiled at the familiarity of it and set down his bags, crossing the small room quietly. He didn't bother looking at whatever experiment was going on, because he would prefer not to be disgusted by a dead man's toenails on his table or some such nonsense.

He gently moved his hands into those dark curls that he loved so much, kissing a pale cheek until Sherlock finally snapped out of his own head. He blinked a few times, staring at John for a moment. John knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking, because he had worried about it as well. That John leaving so quickly after their relationship began would ruin some element of it, that it would be awkward. John had even worried at one point that he imagined everything.

John tried to wash away any uncertainty Sherlock had about them with his lips, gently leaning forward and capturing Sherlock's plump lips with his own. Sherlock looked dazed for a moment, that little sound of surprise he always had when John kissed him making an appearance. John couldn't wait until Sherlock realized there was no need to be surprised, and he was really thrilled to be able to help him come to that realization with his own mouth.

John pulled back with a smile, his fingers gently brushing through Sherlock's hair as he greeted him, "Hey love."

Sherlock licked his lips, and John followed the motion with his eyes, before the detective gave him a tentative smile and murmured, "Hello."

John was starting to discover that Sherlock absolutely adored little names like "love," and "dear," and John found it so adorable that he used them frequently.

John kissed him again, simply because he could, before turning to where he sat down his things. He grabbed his laptop bag, where he had put the stuffed bee, and set it next to Sherlock's microscope, careful to avoid the bag of... _oh Christ, what is that?_ He blinked to looked to Sherlock with a look that was supposed to be scolding for whatever experiment he was doing, but it just came across as endearing.

Sherlock just smirked at the look before looking down to John's laptop bag. Before he could even question what John was doing, John opened it, "I got you something."

Sherlock rose an eyebrow, saying, "John, why would I need an airport souv-"

He stopped himself as John pulled out the little bee. John wished he had a camera so he could savor the little 'O' Sherlock made with his mouth as John handed it to him. John watched as Sherlock stared at the bee for a moment, before stepping closer.

Sherlock spoke after a moment, saying in a slightly confused tone, "You...got me a stuffed bee."

John just grinned and looked down to the plushy, replying with a shrug, "It reminded me of you."

The detective looked at John with a look of awe and bewilderment, probably surprised that John remembered him talking about the bees so long ago, John assumed. Sherlock looked back down to the bee, running his thumb across the soft fabric before saying in a soft voice, still astounded, "Thank you, John."

John's grin couldn't stop growing. He nodded, saying, "Of course," after a moment he went out on a limb and added, trying to contain his smirk, " _honey_."

It took Sherlock a moment to look up, and when he did he had an odd look that was a mixture between _"are you kidding me"_ and _"dear lord, you're perfect."_ Soon that wonderful, low chuckle that John adored filled the small space, and Sherlock said sarcastically, "Oh, how clever."

John just chuckled along, then stepped closer, crowding Sherlock a bit on the small stool, "Very." His chuckles died down after a bit and he asked simply, "How dedicated are you to this little experiment?"

Sherlock blinked, confused for a moment before catching what John was asking and replying, "Not at all." After a moment he added, "Just waiting up for you."

Something in John's chest melted a bit at that, and he considered Sherlock for a moment before stepping back, saying, "Well then," he took Sherlock's hand that wasn't holding the toy and pulled him from his stool, saying lowly, "Come to bed."

Sherlock was out of the kitchen and down the hall before John could blink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment or kudo if you enjoyed it, and any suggestions are welcome!


	3. It's my treat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody, just so you know this chapter is non-established Johnlock, but is still fluffy and definitely hints at it! Remember that these little ficlets are not in chronological order at all <3

They didn't do this. They really didn't. They didn't go out on dates. This was not a date. A date:  _where two people who like each other go out and have fun._ That was John's definition, anyways. And while that sounded like what they were doing, that assumption would be false. Because what John Watson did not mention in his little definition was the word  _romantic_ in between  _two_ and right before  _people. Two romantic people who like each other go out and have fun._ What John also failed to mention was that dates didn't occur four days after one of the two mentioned "romantic people" said goodbye to their pregnant wife forever, as she was going out into hiding. No, John did not mention that, so this was not a date.

But  _God_ did Sherlock want it to be. He wanted to wrap his arms around John, he wanted to kiss him better. He wanted to hold his hand and do all the stupid sentimental stuff he had been avoiding for so long. He wanted to just go for it, because he  _knew_ nothing was really stopping him. Mary was gone. Mycroft had said he would keep a close eye on her, but with everything happening in London (mostly the panic that Moriarty's video had caused) he needed her elsewhere. He had left it to Sherlock to tell John about the baby's parentage. He had to tell John that he wasn't a father anymore, because Mycroft was too much of a coward to crush a man's dreams like that.

Really, Mary leaving was for Sherlock's benefit, the younger brother knew, but he couldn't bring himself to take advantage of the opportunity presented to him. While the biggest issue that had held him back for so long was gone, he faced other challenges when it came to progressing his and John's relationship.

One of the two main issues was what Sherlock did on the plane. And before the plane. And a month after the wedding. And three days after the wedding. Sherlock went back to drugs. He was on them for a long time. He drowned out the goddamn loneliness he felt with a needle and brilliant sensations behind John's back. The doctor seemed so _angry_ when he found him in that drug den, and rightfully so. Sherlock knew he deserved that glare as he laid on that disgusting, urine scented cot. He deserved a lot of things, even more so when he didn't tell John everything. About how he had slipped and had to scrounge for a case to cover his relapse. How he cried for hours the first time he let the needle infiltrate his skin again ( _he's gone, he's gone, he chose her and now he's gone._ ) How Janine walked in on him with a needle in his arm once and how he left the flat walking on air without giving her an explanation.

But John didn't seem mad on that plane. He seemed so damn worried, and Sherlock didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve that kindness after lying to John, after deceiving him into thinking that Sherlock was clean ( _no one deceives like an addict_ ), after not letting on that anything was wrong. He didn't deserve John one bit. But John got upset later, once Sherlock stabilized and he looked like he was somewhat mentally present. He got very angry, and Sherlock let him. Sherlock watched from his bed where he laid, trying not to notice the intimate feeling as John paced the room. 

_"You-you were going to leave me," John choked out after a long silence. "You were leaving and you didn't tell me. You were going to leave me **again** , you weren't even going to tell me." John stopped pacing, facing the wall away from Sherlock, his head lowered as he tried to breathe, "And you tried to kill yourself again. You could have died! Sherlock, you didn't fake it, you almost died! What would I have done? Do you really think I would have just moved on again? I couldn't, not, not again, I-" he left the room and Sherlock cried._

The other reason, apart from the betrayal, was Mary's effect on John. It was impossible for the woman to disappear without a trace on John's heart. She carried his child, and he had loved her, as much as he could. Sherlock didn't know why he thought everything would get better when Mary left. He had this insane fantasy that once she left, they could move on. They could go on cases and eat take out right away because John stopped loving her when he found out who, or what, she really was. Maybe he never really loved her to begin with. But that wasn't what happened.

John was quiet. He came in Sherlock's room quietly, worked him through his fever and sickness from his withdraw. He sat at the end of the bed as Sherlock ate, occasionally said pointless, meaningless words, then left. There was constant motion, but it wasn't the same. Before the plane, Magnusson, and Mary's bullet, John was quiet a lot of the time. He read and cooked and wasn't one for much small talk. He spoke more than Sherlock when it came to conversations, but he didn't speak if he didn't want to. What Sherlock thought was happening now, was that John couldn't find something to talk about that didn't hurt him. John had a lot of pain in his life. He had been shot, cured, abandoned, married, betrayed, and then was almost abandoned again.

Now, without work to stimulate him and Mary, as well as the unborn baby, gone, he had nothing. There was nothing to say, and Sherlock hated it. He hated seeing this ghost of John Watson floating about the flat. He wouldn't hum when he cooked. Sherlock noticed this first, because unless John was really, really, angry, he would hum while cooking. He would read the newspaper, but Sherlock watched how he wouldn't turn the pages, and how his eyes wouldn't be focused. It was the same with reading any novel Sherlock gingerly placed beside his chair in hopes of getting the soldier to be engaged in something. When he watched the telly he wouldn't make any comments like he used to, or ask Sherlock to deduce anything about the show. Instead of going out to "get some air" when Sherlock frustrated him, he would just look away and not reply. Sherlock couldn't take it anymore, so he decided to do something. And that something was not a date.

They would go to Angelos. John loved Angelos. He especially enjoyed the fettuccine pasta and red wine (which Angelo had just so happened to set on their table once when they came in after a particularly long case). John had been doing all of the cooking over the last four days, because Sherlock was shaking a bit too much thanks to the withdraw. Sherlock would manage though, for John. John hadn't left the house since they arrived under orders from Mycroft. After they started making progress on who sent out the Moriarty video, he sent both John and Sherlock home to recover. While John was a homebody and enjoyed days in, even Sherlock, who was recovering from literally almost dying, needed to "get some air" of his own.

 

***

 

Sherlock laid on his bed, facing the ceiling, as he debated how to bring up the topic. He didn't want to make John uncomfortable with going to a place that so often questioned their relationship status, but it was _their's._ It felt like Angelos belonged to them, since that first night. They went to Angelos when they first met. They went to Angelos when John forgave him for "dying". And they would go to Angelos now.

He glanced at the time before sitting up slowly. The nausea had stopped the day before, but he was still being pretty careful with his movements. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and called Angelo quietly, glancing at the door to make sure John didn't come in as he reserved the table by the window. Angelo almost always kept it empty for them, but it had to be perfect. He had to do something right for once, and a random couple sitting at  _their_ table would not be right.

 

He collected his clothes before leaving his sanctuary to take the necessary shower. He strode out of his room confidently, heading straight for the bathroom and not bothering to check if John knew he was up. John always knew. Lately, John had been in an odd limbo between wanting to hover and coddle Sherlock, and wanting to give him his space. Now he seemed to have chosen the later, as he hadn't checked on him in about an hour, but even then Sherlock knew the soldier was always on alert.

He changed out of his pajamas quickly, relief overcoming him as he stepped under the spray. John hadn't wanted him to strain himself by changing out of his pajamas after having to help him out of his suit when they arrived at the flat days ago. After waiting for the mirror to clear of condensation, he decided he needed to shave. The shaver glided across his skin easily, and he only nicked himself once due to his unsteady hands. The hand shaking always lasted the longest, he reminded himself. He looked in the mirror once he was done, drying his hair with a towel before tossing it on the floor.

He took a breath before opening the bathroom door, and found John Watson standing there. He looked like a mess, the dim light of the hallway bringing out the bags under his eyes and the creases of his pajamas showing that he had been sitting a lot. So, he was sitting, but not sleeping. Thinking, then. That was never good, not for John and not given everything that had happened to the man.

Sherlock considered him briefly before speaking, because John certainly didn't look like he was going to, "I've made reservations at Angelos."

He stepped around John and went to his bedroom, leaving the door open because John was following him. He was putting on his shoes when a gruff, unused voice replied, sounding quite tired, "Sherlock, you're brother said not to leave the flat, and you are in no condition to be out and about."

"I hacked the surveillance this morning, and they aren't watching us as heavily, so we must not be in imminent danger," he replied immediately, adding with a shrug, "And the shaking's gone down, as well as the nausea. I'm fine."

"That's what you said when you almost died form an overdose!" John seemed surprised that he had said it as much as Sherlock was surprised to hear it. John hadn't snapped at Sherlock much at all over the past few days, except for when he refused to eat. Well, maybe that was because Sherlock hadn't tried to leave at all, mostly because he couldn't even walk properly. However, John's outburst just proved how on edge he was.

Sherlock stood, a small smirk on his face as he put a hand on John's shoulder, saying simply, "And then I didn't die," he realized how close they were standing, and how John really wasn't stable to handle much more, especially a new relationship, and stepped back. There was a brief pause before he walked around John, adding, "But I might if I don't get out of this bloody flat."

He went down the hall, somewhat slowly, and looking in the mirror in the main room. He waited to hear John follow him before adding, "It's my treat, let's just get out of here for a bit."

He looked at him through the reflection, his features softening as he watched the man's hesitant expression turn to a resigned look. He heard John sigh and turn around. He went to his chair and grabbed his duffle bag, which one of Mycroft's agents had collected for him, to get his clothes. Sherlock had wished he would have unpacked by now, but he couldn't complain. John could take all the time he needed to come to the conclusion that this was where he belonged. Forever.

When John went down the hall towards the loo, Sherlock called out, "We're leaving in five minutes," knowing John often got lost in his head when he went to shower. All Sherlock got was a quiet, amused huff in response. He tried to convince himself that it was fine, that John was just going to have another quiet day, but before he could even try, John spoke in a soft, amused tone, "You're so bloody impatient."

Sherlock smirked at his reflection in the mirror and thought that maybe, just maybe, they were going to be okay.


End file.
